


The Color of Blood

by ghostofgatsby



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Blood, Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red is the color of blood. It’s the color of life, and death. Of family. Of passion, and sex.<br/>It’s the color of murder, and war. Of anger, and of pain.<br/>Red is the color of fate.</p>
<p><em>Am I worth this?</em> Smith wonders. <em>Am I worth protecting? Am I worth fighting for?</em><br/>Ross senses Smith’s conflicted thoughts as he watches the emotions shape his face.<br/>“What is it?” Ross asks. He holds onto Smith’s fingertips.<br/><em>Am I worth dying for?</em> Smith wants to say. Instead, he look up at Ross and asks, “Will I make a rightful king?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Color of Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Something different. This has been sitting in my docs since this summer, so I thought I’d polish it up and finish it. I quite like how it turned out. Some of the lines I really like the phrasing of and it’s high time I posted it.
> 
> Somewhat based on the style of oneese/christrottimus, of which I’m a fan. Though this fic is not nearly as heartbreakingly beautiful as their work is.
> 
> cws: Death, Blood, Swords, Dead Bodies, War, mention of drinking, mention of graves  
> If I need to tag anything else, let me know.
> 
> reblog?: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2016/1/12/the-color-of-blood-ghostofgatsby

A solitary light shines through the darkness shrouding the haven of House Smith. The oldest and heir of the homestead looks out into the night from his tower keep, watching the burgundy banners on the western wall flap in the wind.

The banners bear his familial crest, three black swords spread behind a gold gryphon. In the valley towards the rising moon are the graves of the ancestors of House Smith- warriors, tacticians, and commanders at arms. He is none of these things he is expected to be.

Below the tower, hidden away in the depths of the stone castle, he hears his father and his men-at-arms laughing in wine-drunk camaraderie. He left them some time ago, and came upstairs to his rooms instead of joining in. Tonight he doesn’t feel like celebrating.

The air is crisp, the chill of autumn making the night frigid, but the hearth keeps him warm.

A knock sounds on his chamber door, and he turns slightly towards it as he answers.

"Enter."

It's Ross- his chief guardsman. Ross steps inside the room and shuts the door behind him. His silver armor shines in the firelight. The flames dance in the hearth, casting shadows onto his face.

“What is it?” Smith asks, watching Ross as the guardsman worries his lip between his teeth.

“What're you hiding up here for?" Ross asks. He stands at the door as if he is afraid to come closer, and Smith gestures for him to take a seat somewhere.

"I'm not hiding,” Smith sighs with a shake of his head. “What would I be hiding from?"

Ross shrugs. He slowly crosses the room and stands next to the foot of the bed instead of sitting. "You're not downstairs." He answers.

Smith rolls his eyes and looks away. "Neither are you."

"I noticed you were missing." Ross starts again.

Smith sighs and leans his head against the window pane. "You're the only one who does." He says. He hears Ross move closer, the guard’s boots falling heavy on the stone beneath his feet.

"That's not true." Ross disagrees, voice soft.

The logs shift in the fire, crackling as they are consumed.

"Isn't it?” Smith replies. “Did my father ask for me?" He gives Ross a look over his shoulder. The armor Ross is wearing shines red-gold in the firelight.

Ross frowns back at him.

“Well?” Smith asks, prompting him to answer.

Ross shakes his head. "No. No, he didn’t."

"Then don’t tell me otherwise, Ross.” Smith murmurs, turning away from him again. “Don't stretch the truth."

Smith stares out into the night, searching the dark forest for anything amiss. There’s nothing out there tonight- nothing he can see. He searches out of habit, after training with the night patrol when he was younger. The nightly watchmen were one of the most loyal group of men he’d ever met. They followed the orders of his father, the king, without any doubt of his reasoning.

Smith can’t imagine people following him the same way. It’s not as if they couldn’t learn to trust him as they do his father, it’s just that he _isn’t_ his father. He may be his oldest son, next in line for the throne, but he’s not a replica of the man who wears the crown. He’s expected to be a leader, expected to take his father's place, but the loyalty of men always gives Smith pause.

_Am I worth their loyalty?_ He wonders. _Am I worth as much as my father, in that regard?_

Smith looks over his shoulder at Ross, his chief guardsman, who watches him silently with his hands clasped behind his back.

Dutifully. Always, Ross is vigilant. No matter if Smith gives him that same trust or not.

But after the years he and Ross have known each other, the strength between them only grows stronger. They have known each other for so long that nothing could break their companionship.

As a boy Smith was often in scraps and fights with the other children. He lost himself in the woods often enough that he learned to find his way home in a heartbeat by age twelve. Ross, not much older than he, was assigned to keep after him. They’ve been close ever since.

Smith turns fully from the window, and stares at Ross instead of the empty expanse of the night. Ross stares back, with his blue eyes sparkling in the firelight.

Smith moves close to him until they are an arm's-length apart. He stares at Ross’ stance. His feet are planted apart, with one hand on his sword and his other at his belt. His shoulders are broad in the armor that bears the crest of House Smith.

Smith traces the flaking paint of the red gryphon upon Ross’ chest, along the scratches where blades have marred the surface.

Ross' loyalty to Smith seems like a small thing, in comparison to the entire army. What is the loyalty of one compared to hundreds? But whatever Ross will give Smith, Smith will take wholeheartedly, and with the devotion he's earned over time. He owes the other man that much, for all the grief he causes him.

_Am I worth this?_ He wonders. _Am I worth you, am I worth protecting? Am I worth fighting for?_

Ross brushes Smith’s trailing fingers away, sensing his conflicted thoughts by watching the emotions shape his face.

“What is it?” Ross asks. He holds onto Smith’s fingertips.

_Am I worth dying for?_ Smith wants to say.

Instead, he look up at Ross and asks, “Will I make a rightful king?”

Ross’ worries slip from his face. This is something Smith has voiced before. He holds Smith’s hand more firmly, thumb brushing over the back of his palm.

“You will be great. I know you will.” Ross reassures him, smiling softly. He stares into Smith’s eyes in the firelight, and it’s not just the heat of the hearth that makes Smith feel warm inside.

But he sighs and removes his hand from Ross’.

“What is greatness?” Smith asks, running a hand through his hair as he looks away. “Is it leadership? Prowess? Or do you hold greatness just by being born unto it?”

“I don’t know.” Ross replies with a shake of his head. “But whatever it is, you have it.”

Smith snorts. “You’re just saying that.”

Ross chuckles quietly and shakes his head. “I don’t say things I don’t mean, Smith.”

Smith turns to look at him again. He meets the gaze of ice blue eyes that look at him with such devotion. “I know.” He says, reaching out and cupping Ross’ cheek with his hand. “I know that much, at least.”

He traces Ross' stubbled jawline with his fingertips as he steps closer.

“Smith...” Ross murmurs his name with unbridled affection.

Smith’s hands move to the buckles of Ross’ armor. He starts to unfasten them with a smirk quirking up the corner of his mouth.

Ross moves hesitatingly to stop him, his own hands hovering over Smith’s. "Smith, we shouldn't-"

Smith silences him with a kiss. A simple press of lips that cuts Ross’ feeble protesting short.

The guardsman sighs wearily when Smith pulls away, and smiles. It is a battle he cannot win, to protest Smith's risky affections. Had Smith’s feelings not been reciprocated, Ross would have spoken up. He’s more than capable of pushing Smith away. But his love for the prince was more than a knight's pledge- he would give everything.

Ross helps Smith unbuckle the armor from around him, setting the heavy metal out of the way and making sure to bolt the door so they won’t be untimely interrupted. Once Smith has divested Ross of his armaments, down to his plainclothes, Ross takes Smith's hands in his and kisses him.

Unlike the first of the night, this kiss is with all the passion of words left unsaid. The way their lips meet in tandem is of desperate lovers searching for wholeness. Parted by duty and obligation alone, they kiss as if it could be their last.

They are young but not young enough to ignore the threat of war on the horizon. Should the kingdom fall, they would fall with it. And swiftly.

But none of their worries matter in this moment- not tonight.

Ross is quick to loosen the ties of Smith's shirt and pants. Fortnights of practice make his fingers like master thieves, stealing under Smith's clothes to feel the heat of his skin.

What the king would say, would he know the state of his son's virginity. But with Smith's bawdry humor...he might not be surprised.

Smith sighs in pleasure as Ross kisses the delicate skin of his neck. He leads Ross backwards to the bed as the last of his clothes fall to the floor.

 

\---

 

The men come in the dead of winter and the snow becomes red like spilled wine.

Preparations for battle begin in earnest, when news of burned villages comes from the south. The armies begin to rise from their slumber.

Smith trains and studies from the early hours of the morn until the late hours of the night.

“This is what you were born to be.” His father tells him. They walk the halls of the castle armory, watching scarred veteran knights pour over maps and diagrams. “Your birthright is that of rule and dignity. There are thousands at your command, to protect and defend, and to serve our sovereign House. War is in your blood, my son, and we shall fight until the last of our line is lost.”

Smith watches uneasily as boys-turned-men spar. They are hardly much younger than himself. “The lives of these men are in my hands, father.” He replies, “Their blood might as well run through my veins- every death is on my head. What of their families? They did not ask for this.”

His father tuts. “No one asks for death, save those who are weary of life. War is not kind. It shows no mercy to the nobility and the peasantry alike.”

Smith holds back his retorts of what he knows already, and clarifies himself. “I grew up without a life of war.” He states, “Why should they be subjected to its terrors?”

“No one chooses their destiny.” His father says firmly. “Not even the good or godly are spared, when it comes to war. No one is.”

Smith watches his father’s grizzled face as the king talks with his captains. He listens to their conversations, looks across the armory and sees his reflection in newly made swords.

_Is he the king I’m meant to be?_ Smith wonders, seeing his father in his own features. He looks back at his father and watches him pour over maps and diagrams with his tacticians. _How much of my future is mine to hold, and how much of my fate is the same as his?_

“Tomorrow we ride for the moors.” His father tells him that evening, as they watch the night patrol take their places on the battlements. “I am to go, and you shall stay here.”

“Here?” Smith frowns. “I thought I was to go with you?”

The king shakes his head. “No. Should I fail, you shall take my place.”

Smith blanches, tries not to think of the men that are to go to war tomorrow, with his father at the helm of them. He tries not to think of the red emblem upon their chests turning red with something else. “Are the stakes that stacked against us?” He asks. “We have the strongest army in the lands-”

“If.” His father states. He rests his hand on Smith’s shoulder for the briefest of moments. “Never forget that there is a chance for every possible outcome. Account for everything, always.”

 

\---

 

His father sets out the following morning, as the sun crests the sky. The day is long and tiring for Smith, full of his mother’s worry and the nobles’ and peasants’ concerns. There are other matters to attend to, regardless if they go to war or not. His father has left, and so the other duties of a king are assigned to him.

Just as Smith settles into bed, bone-tired and weary, he is assailed by the sound of the warning bells. Their castle gets attacked not long after midnight, and Smith takes up the role he was bred to be. He commands the castle walls be shut, tells archers where best to aim their bows, and runs into the thrall of battle himself.

As he fights their attackers, the flagstones stain red. All he sees is red- anger at himself and for what he must do. His role, his place, is in battle, and it’s something he never wanted to see. So many men have died for him, will die for him, and it’s a bitter truth he has to live with.

Smith has no choice. He’s doing this to protect his home, his family, his country, but he doesn’t understand why they fight. The people that attack want to see him dead for no reason other than they are the opposition.

Some man, dressed from head to toe in armor, nearly splits him open with a greataxe when Smith is caught off guard. But just as he ducks out of the way, Ross is there, sword thrusting through the gap in the man’s armor.

Smith’s sure it’s been hours since he has last seen Ross. He had lost track of him in the chaos of battle, and he can’t help but be relieved at the same time he’s sickened.

Ross’ sword comes away bloody as the attacker slumps to the floor.

Smith watches the other man die, knowing it could have been him, staring up futily into Ross’ eyes.

He turns away.

He must keep fighting.

The dead pile around him, both sides losing many. Smith feels guilty and numb even though he shouldn’t. He tries to tell himself they died for a good cause, but he doesn’t know what that cause is.

The fighting ends that morning as the sun begins to peek through the clouds. Smith’s family are safe; the castle defended. A pageboy comes back with a letter from his father, reporting, and Smith replies with the death tolls of their men in tally marks on the bottom of the paper.

His father says that vigilance is key.

Smith doesn’t know what to believe.

In the wee hours of the morning, stumbling back to his own bedchamber, Smith finds Ross.

The guardsman is battle worn, bloody, fatigued. Smith figures he looks the same himself, but yet again he’s relieved.

He had lost Ross amidst battle, again, and he fears that one day he might find him amongst the dead.

Once they’re shut in Smith’s chambers, alone, they hold each other closely. Not saying much of anything, letting exhaustion tempt their minds to sleep. To sleep in each other’s arms is a luxury that they don’t want to cheapen.

 

The days roll by. They bury the dead, and hear of battles on the horizon. Smith takes more of his father’s place, commanding the army at the castle, making plans to fortify their defenses, allegating troops.

A fortnight later, a messenger returns from his father’s side of the war, looking grief-stricken and grim. He divests himself of his hat and kneels before Smith as the prince stands to greet him.

“Your father, my lord...” He murmurs, trailing off. and Smith knows without him continuing.

 

\---

 

The coronation is quick. The scepter feels too light in Smith’s hands; the crown too heavy on his head. The hearths roar louder than the noblemen who pledge to him. The banners bearing the crest of House Smith hang high, in mourning and in celebration.

The celebration is dim.

Each guard, knight, and nobleman kneels before Smith and pledges their duty to crown and creed. Ross rises from his knees calling him “my liege”, and Smith knows in his heart he’d rather Ross say something else.

They knew this day would come, but they were never quite prepared enough for it.

He and Ross have sex again that night, once they are divested of their ceremonial garb. They are rough with each other, nails scratching, hands bruising and kisses biting. It won’t matter if they draw suspicion- they ride tomorrow. To battle.

They cannot take time to be gentle; they don’t have any time left.

 

\---

 

There’s a red sunrise that morn. Red on Ross’ lips, red marks on Smith’s neck. Red of the banners of House Smith.

His house. His men. His name.

He is king now. The realization was slow to come.

Up on his horse, Smith feels not like a man at all, but like a boy. The cold air makes his lungs tighten with every breath.

The captain of the guard, stationed to his left, clears his throat. “Onwards, my lord?” He asks.

They are stopped at the edge of the southern woods. Smith had slowed his horse to look out over the frost-covered and barren land.

The last time he saw the land atop horseback was years ago, when he was just a boy. He and his father visited the provinces they ruled over. The land was bountiful then, rich with harvest, and the people welcomed them joyously.

Now the land is nothing but cold and lifeless. The people, if they are any left, will not welcome them.

Smith swallows thickly and steels himself to match the gray fog of the battle-torn, frozen land. His posture straightens, and he thinks hard of his father and the presence he had commanded atop horseback. He is not his father, but he has to be something close. His men, his country, deserve that much.

“M’ lord?” The captain asks again, clearing his throat. “Shall we continue?”

Smith stares straight ahead at the path before them and gives the captain a firm nod. “March on.”

 


End file.
